


The Edge of the World Pt. 1

by woollen_pharaohs



Series: The Weather [1]
Category: Music RPF, Pond (Band), Tame Impala
Genre: Band Fic, Drug Use, Gen, Substance Abuse, Vignette, in-text hyperlinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: Nick hosts a house party, but feels overwhelmed by it and escapes to the beach. Kevin and Dom follow him.





	The Edge of the World Pt. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set before 2006.
> 
> so i've only had this fic idea in my head for 3 days now and i was kind of feverish while i was writing it but basically this... and sometimes i feel like taking it down entirely, so i watch the video for Sweep Me Off My Feet and i feel okay again. So anyway, this is just meant to stand as a short imagist piece about the wonderous pixie that is Nicholas Allbrook and his relationship with people and the land and his music, all laced with drug induced imagery.
> 
>  
> 
> hope some punter out there enjoys this, and no offence intended to those involved!

**The Edge of the World Pt. 1 (Perth)**

Nick walks backwards down the sidewalk with houses slipping by on his side and Bowie’s voice howling softer and softer the more they slink away from the house party. He holds a flashlight between his buck teeth and dances the beam of light over Kev and Dom following him down the road. Their hair sweeps in together in the gentle breeze, and when Nick is like this, when the ice is colder than the outside air, he can’t tell when Kev ends and Dom begins.

Telegraph poles hum, straining with the weight of the world crying down their lines. Asphalt beneath bare feet turns into grassy sand, then falls away to fine grains and Nick runs to the ocean. Leaves his friends to comingle on the dunes, an entangled mess of thick brown hair spread out on Swanbourne Beach. Their bodies nude where clothing is optional anyway, skin covered in a light sheen of sweat and cum beneath the bright starry night.

Nick squats on the shore and waves the light through the foamy edge, shining a spotlight across the tiny translucent shapes of jellyfishes swaying in the water. When he stands up, the noises about him are roaring. The raging sea, the moaning young men behind him. He lifts his arms to the vast minds lost and frozen in the depths of the Indian Ocean, music beating out of the [Songlines](http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/allinthemind/songlines-indigenous-memory-code/7581788) beneath the land robbed from 80,000 years of ownership.

A riff rockets down his spine, sends him shivering and when he stumbles out of the ocean, his feet hurt from the cold. He runs toward Kev and Dom, his feet hurting with every hit against the sand and he topples into their laps, lopsided smiles cradling him, wet lips kissing his shoulders and stomach and the upsides of his hands worn tough from playing. Two salty fingers press into his mouth, run over his soft yellow teeth where the flashlight once was and free slick hands run sweet laughter over his spine, chase down the straps of his dungarees lower and lower and he feels warmth coming back to him, temperatures rising. His mop of hair sheathed by a beanie, pressing his hair to his head like a gumnut baby, stripped naked and giggling in the arms of tall white gums.

The heat down in his abdomen stirs something alive and he bursts, jerks upward and outward and corkscrews his body all the way around and all the way back. Kev and Dom watch him with matching smiles, joint by the lips and they’re not looking anymore, not at him, but at the worlds in their eyes colliding and melding into one eternal flame.

Nick pulls up his damp dungarees and dashes back to the house. The beach swallows up in the rising tide, the shadowy trees drowning out behind him and the pavement sinking beneath his numb feet. He chases after Bowie, the neighbours with pillows tied to their heads and their telephones glued to their hands, triple zero ready beneath their sleepless thumbs for when the music goes on too long and too loud. Which it always does, but he’s a sweet talker even when he’s all kinds of fucked up. And after he has a good laugh with the [coppers](http://www.oystermag.com/interview-top-bloke-and-former-tame-impala-bassist-nick-allbrook) and sends them away, he’ll retire to his room with Bowie and Cream playing at a reasonable volume, his friends in bed with him curling around his feet and making music together until they don’t feel guilty anymore.


End file.
